Running Dry (12 page)

"I'm not sure," I hear Fulton say in a serious voice.  “Zane?  You okay, buddy?”

Char gets up closer to my face and I pop my eyes open and spray her full on with a forceful raspberry, the kind that sounds like “pzzzzt,” and I make sure to add an extra spray of tongue spit as I do it.  She has an expression of pure shock on her face and for a minute I'm not sure if I should have done it, but then Fulton starts laughing like a wild hyena and Charlotte's confusion turns to giggles and soon we are all laughing. 

"You're funny, Zane," she says and I know I’ve passed her initiation. 

Chapter 17

Bekka

I meet my agent, Jameson, for the first time in an abandoned building in one of the worst neighborhoods I've ever been in, in either city.  I was afraid I might not make it to the meeting at all, after a bum tripped me, then told me I should look where I'm going because I just walked into his bathroom.  I nearly vomited when I looked closer toward the wall he was leaning up against and saw he wasn't joking.  My hand had landed inches from his excrement.  Unfortunately, my notebook, which I had been holding, didn't get as lucky.  I hesitated, but I wasn't about to retrieve it.  So I left it, picked myself up, and mumbled an apology before breaking into a full sprint.  Good thing I still wear my running shoes everywhere. 

Now, dashing up the stairs, I'm worried, not only about not having notes, but about explaining that the notes I did take are now out there, free.  Rule number twelve of the Spy code I've been studying: Never leak your info out into unknown hands.  That is exactly what I had done.  I scold myself.  Great way to make a first impression. 

The room is mostly dark at this point, with the daylight fading outside.  The big concrete room is fairly empty and cold, with a few old office desks and chairs scattered about.  I feel a foreboding chill as I make out the man sitting against a wall, looking similar to the bum I'd just stumbled across.  He has on a layer of dirty clothing, which appears way too warm, even for a coolish night like this.  It feels slightly damp and I'm not sure if it’s just the dankness of the room, my nerves, or if there's a slight chance of rain.

I attempt to regain my composure and straighten myself out as I approach.

"Tyler?" he says.

"Yeah."  When I first saw it on the new ID I was given, I thought they had made a mistake, switching Tyson to Tyler, but Tyler is my new first name, which I haven't gotten used to yet.

"Sit down," he says.  He hands me an envelope. "This has some new information for you to review."  He is all business, with no lack of confidence in his voice.  I sit with a good bit of space between us, also against the wall, and I tilt my body a little so I can see him.  He is probably in his mid to late forties.  He has dark facial stubble and a balding head.  His jaw bone is very defined and his eyes are sunken which gives him a wiry look.

"How has your first month gone?" he says, in a drab tone, like he is already bored of the conversation.

"Good," I say trying to sound cheery, though it's a big lie.

"Good?"  He kind of smirks as he says it.  I start to sweat a little.

"I mean, I’m adjusting fine."

"Okay."  He laughs.  "What have you got for me?"  I decide to skip telling him anything about losing the notebook.  I'm going to just have to correct that error on my own.  I think about the notes I took in the last few weeks.  My mind is whirling.

"I don't think I have much.  I've only just spent some time in my local cafe, and a few stores, and..."

He does one of those rude gestures with his hands which means I should get to the point.  I don't have a point, so I freeze up.

"What do you think the mood is right now, Tyler?"

"Well, I did hear a young couple arguing about financial concerns."

"Uh huh.  And?"

"I'm not sure.  It's not something I've ever heard over on the other side.  Money troubles.  Not that I can think of, anyway."  I think about Muma.  We weren't rich at all, but I never remember her uttering a word about not being able to afford the basics, or talk about a second job, or anything like that.  I’m not sure if it was just her protecting me or if it really wasn't an issue.

"A couple fighting?  About money?  A young couple, you said?  That sounds exactly like something they would argue about."  He kind of chuckles to himself.  "You got a boyfriend, Tyler?"

"Um, no.  But, I just mean...financial issues are sometimes a sign of bigger problems, with the population as a whole." My voice quivers.

He cuts me off with a sigh, "anything else?"

Trying to find something to satisfy him, I continue, "People are generally pretty angry here, don't you think?"

"How do you mean?"

"It just feels like things are more, I don't know, uncertain."

"Well, get me some facts about why you think so.  I work in specifics," he says pointedly.

"I, um.  I'll try."

"No, don't try.  Do it."

My face flushes and I try to stay calm, but I want to melt.  He must see it because he reaches out and places his hand on my knee.  I shiver and I don’t think it has anything to do with the cool room.

"Did you get a job yet?" he asks.  His hand still sits on my knee.  I'm too distraught to answer.

"Well, I may have a hook up.  Go apply at The Food Bar.  Talk to Rhonda.  They will probably hire you.  Let's hope so."

"Okay," I say meekly.  I want to get up and run, but he moves his hand and stands up first.

"Same time next month," he says and then walks out of the room, without so much as a glance back. 

I sit, trying to compose myself, waiting until I assume he is far away before I sniffle loudly.  The room is now completely dark and feels even more sinister than when I entered a short while ago.  A rumble of thunder shakes the whole building, preceded closely by a bolt of lightning, illuminating the creepy space. 

As I walk back in the steady rain, I'm actually glad for the cleansing, but am reminded of my notebook, which was also in need of a good washing.  I need to get it back, I determine, even if what’s inside isn't all that important, at least according to Jameson.  My spirits couldn't be broken anymore than they already have been today, so I march over to where the bum is sitting and demand the notebook back. 

"What notebook are you referring to, Legs?" he grunts, looking up at me from his slumped position.

I muster my toughest voice and say, "The one I dropped earlier.  You know, over by your bathroom."

We both look down at the spot, which is cleaned of both of the items which had been there when I bolted from the scene less than an hour prior. 

"Are you trying to rob a homeless man?" he says, laughing through his toothless grin.

"Rob?  No!  That notebook is mine!  Give it back!"

"Okay, okay," he says, still laughing.  He pulls something from what looks like a rubble heap next to him and hands me the notebook. 

I take it carefully, remembering where it had been the last time I saw it, and say, "Thanks."

"Enjoy," he says, oddly. 

I walk off, feeling relieved that I did it.  I regained possession of the notebook, thus solving one of my problems.  My other problem is that I am clearly a terrible spy and need to figure out what to do about it before my next meeting with Jameson.  The thought of seeing that man again makes me ill and it's not only because of his disturbing hand placement.  He doesn't seem like someone who's going to help guide me through this mess.  I have a month to figure it out myself.

Zane

The meal is relaxed and I'm enjoying being in the company of people again.  I almost feel like a normal person for the first time in a long, long time.  Sam is a very nice woman, with wavy dark brown hair and a warm smile.  If I'd have known Fulton was a family man I would have bought fake flowers instead of the booze.  I've barely sipped mine but Fulton has just poured himself a third.  Sam's on the quiet side but since that's my side too, it feels like a point of connection. 

And little Char is a devil in a cute, tiny disguise, but I would expect nothing less from an offspring of Fulton.  Everytime I look at her, she is shoving food up her nostrils or taking other things out of them.  Sam scolds her under her breath every so often and Fulton ignores it completely.  It's odd seeing him as a family man, and one who doesn't scream at that.  People can be very surprising. 

"So, what have you been doing on your days off?" he asks, sitting across the small table from me. 

"I dunno.  Mostly sleeping," I admit, though I don't know why.

"Well, you shouldn't do that.  You gotta try to get out, you know."  He casts an intensely deep look at me.  "Go to the club over on the edge of the base.  Some nights there might even be a girl or two there.  Some of them aren’t even runners."  I understand from the look and the seriousness of his tone that he is giving me a direct order, but at the word runner, I look down at my plate and get lost in it.

"Oh, sorry," he says.

"It's okay.  No big deal.  You’re right, actually.  I need to start socializing."

"What's no big deal?  Did I miss something?" Sam asks.

"Oh, Zane had a girl who was supposed to be a runner, but she got a different assignment.  Off base."

"She wasn't my girl," I protest, probably too strongly.  Quieter, I say, "Just a friend."

"Sure," Fulton says, snorting into his glass.

"It's true!  Besides, she wrote me off in her last letter."

"All the more reason to get out there, then," Sam adds, smiling at me.

She's probably right.  It's time to move on. 

"How did you two meet?" I ask.

"Well," Samantha says, "I worked at the laundry facility where Devin drops his uniform each week."  She eyes him across the table.  Char is arranging the food on her plate into a smiley face and humming under her breath.  "One day there was a note in the pocket of his pants.  I pulled it out before putting them through the machine.  It was letter in which he was professing his love for the lovely brown haired laundry worker."

"Smooth," I say, looking at Fulton curiously. 

Sam laughs.  Fulton's cheeks go slightly red.  "Yeah, you could really learn something from me," he says.

"I already have," I say, but leave it at that.

I help Sam clear the dishes, then I load them in the sanitizer while she takes Charlotte to bed.  It's pretty obvious that Fulton is hammered.  He's getting chatty and is slurring his words some while he talks to me from the table while I clean up.  I decide it's time to make my exit.

"Thank you for the meal, Sam," I say, readying myself at the apartment door.

"You are welcome here anytime, Zane," she says.

"What about me?" Fulton says loudly.  "I'm the one who invited you."

"Devin," Samantha says, embarrassed.  "Lower your voice."

"Sorry," he grovels. 

"Thanks, sir.  It was very nice to meet your family."

Just as I turn to go, Char comes running out of her bedroom in pink footed pajamas.  Her eyes are filled with sleep and she has dried toothpaste on her chin.  I bend down to give her the only goodbye I think appropriate: a scary, monster face with fingers wiggling around from my ears and nose, as I make sounds like a cat puking.  She looks at me and cocks her tiny head to the side.  Then she dives into me and hugs me.

"Come over and play with me again soon," she whispers as her tiny hands pulled away from me. 

"I will," I promise.

Chapter 18

Bekka

When I get back to my apartment, I set the notebook near the sink and wiggle out off my wet clothes.  Standing in my kitchen in nothing but my pantys and bra, I plug the drain, get a small cloth from the drawer, lather my hands in soap and turn the tap on slightly.  I quickly rinse and turn the tap off.  I dip the cloth in just enough to make it damp then wipe the laminate portion of the outside of the notebook. 

Letting it dry on the counter, I make my way to my bedroom and throw a robe on.  I've got a hundred things swirling in my head and I need to jot down the name of the person Jameson told me to see at the factory before I forget.  I gather the notebook and a pen, and pour myself a drink, and head for the sofa.  My head is pounding.  I throw a few pain relievers into my mouth and wash them down with the water.  As I shuffle through the notebook pages to find a blank one to write on, it hits me.  This is not my writing.  I close the book and look at the outside again.  The cover looks the same, a plain spiral notebook, same size as mine, but opening it to the first page again, it's clear.  This is not my notebook.  The bum gave me the wrong book! 

I blow my hair from my face and sink back into the couch.  This is not happening to me.  This time, instead of just wanting to cry, I actually do.  Big fat tears.  I just let them roll off while I have a full on pity party for myself.  My agent is a creepy jerk who clearly thinks I'm a young, inexperienced girl who knows nothing.  The worst part is, he's probably right.  What do they expect from me?  I don't know anything about politics or moods or wars.  I don't understand why they chose me for this job, but I also don't want to be fired and sent back with my tail between my legs.  There is nothing for me back there.  Failure is not an option.  I'm strong.  I need to figure out how to do this.